


History Repeats Itself

by MsLadySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Feels, Gen, Mycroft Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 22:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLadySmith/pseuds/MsLadySmith
Summary: After a long dry spell, I finally wrote something!Inspired by a triptych by whimsycatcher on Tumblr: https://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/136598154738Each chapter represents one of the frames of the drawing.Thank you, madsydva, for the beta-read and Brit-picking!





	1. Ahoy, Matey!

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [3 times Mycroft carried Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/520784) by whimsycatcher. 
**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first frame - Sherlock is 4 years old and Mycroft is 11 years old.

“Ahoy, Matey!” Mycroft called up to his little brother, nestled in the old oak across the meadow from the manor. Mummy had little luck bringing Sherlock in, so when Mycroft got home from school, he had loaded up a picnic basket and gone outside. “Come down here!”

“This is my crow’s nest! I’m looking for the island where the treasure is!” The little boy whined.

“Yes, well, you can’t bury treasure until after we’ve eaten the lovely lunch Mummy made,” The older boy held up the basket of fruit and sandwiches. “At least, not if you’re a proper pirate.”

Excitedly, the 4-year-old scrambled down the low branch he’d perched upon. “Oh! Did she pack a proper pirate lunch, Myc’of’? Is there grog?” He rushed toward the basket. 

“I believe she gave us apple juice – that is nearly grog, I think. And your special mug to drink it from.” Mycroft opened the juice and poured a measure into Sherlock’s little Jolly Roger mug, bought for him last Christmas by Mummy’s brother. Uncle Rudy knew how enamoured of pirates Sherlock was, and was willing to encourage the boy’s imagination. It was he who had bought Sherlock the eyepatch and toy sword, as well, much to Mummy’s chagrin.

Mycroft took a seat on the blanket and set food in front of Sherlock. Sherlock jumped onto the blanket and set about devouring said sandwich – peanut butter and jam with the crusts cut off, of course. Mycroft then peeled a banana for him, which disappeared nearly as quickly. 

“Come on, bruver!” Sherlock dropped his empty mug next to the basket and jumped to his feet. “Let’s go look for treasure!” Drawing his toy sword and holding it aloft, he dashed across the wide meadow.

Mycroft smiled as he cleaned up the remains of the picnic, packing everything back into the basket. Sherlock was in the middle of the field, swinging his sword fiercely at the tall reeds around him, snapping some of them. His shrieks of victory warmed Mycroft’s heart. Setting the basket at the base of the old oak, he loosened his tie – he’d not had time to change out of his uniform before Mummy asked him to corral his little brother – and sauntered through the field. 

“It’s right here, bruver! See?” Sherlock pointed excitedly at the clearing bearing a handful of stones arranged in an X. Inwardly smiling, Mycroft praised his own forethought of arranging this the other day while his brother slept. He was only surprised it took him this long to find it. 

“Indeed. Have you a shovel? Or are we to dig with our hands?”

Sherlock looked confused, then slightly sad. “Maybe we just need to look under the rocks?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, let’s try that, shall we?” Mycroft carefully knelt on the bare ground – Mummy would be unhappy about the dirty knees of his uniform, but needs must – and together, he and Sherlock flipped one of the ‘treasure rocks,’ to find a shiny penny beneath it. The little boy squealed in delight, holding the penny up. “We’re rich, Myc’of’! We’re rich!” he cheered, dancing around. Mycroft’s eyes gleamed as he watched his brother’s excitement.

Eight more pennies were found – one under each rock – and young Sherlock’s glee never subsided as he found his treasures and tucked them into a pocket. Of course, the little boy had to fight off another gang of invaders – some unlucky wild carrot stalks, if Mycroft had to guess – before Mycroft finally convinced him that ‘returning to port’ before nightfall was a wise decision.

Together they walked back to the oak and Mycroft gathered up the picnic basket. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw young Sherlock yawn. With a soft smile, he again knelt down. “May I carry the captain back?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded a bit sleepily in response. “OK, hop up, then,” Mycroft replied, helping Sherlock climb onto his back. Thus burdened, with his baby brother on his back and a picnic basket hooked over one arm, Mycroft carefully trekked back to the manor house, setting the picnic basket in the kitchen and with a nod to Mummy, carrying Sherlock upstairs. 

He woke Sherlock long enough to wash his hands and face with a warm flannel, and strip off his grass-soiled clothing. With a sudden – but brief – burst of energy, Sherlock grabbed his trousers, and pulled his nine penny treasure out of his pocket, pressing it into Mycroft’s hand.

“By what did I earn your treasure?” Mycroft asked, genuinely confused.

“Hide them again tomorrow so we can find them.” Sherlock smiled sleepily, as Mycroft swept him up and carried him off for a nap.


	2. Never Suffer a Bully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second frame - Sherlock is 11 years old and Mycroft is 18 years old.

“He hit me first, Mycroft!” Sherlock sniffled as his brother watched the school nurse clean up his cut lip. “I was only defending myself!”

“Thank you for calling me instead of Mummy, Mrs. Livingston,” Mycroft nodded to the assistant principal who had called him to pick up his brother after the fight. The other boy, Steven Cully, was sitting in her office, waiting for his father to pick him up. He, too, would be sporting a black eye by morning.

Mycroft walked outside with Sherlock and sighed. “You know as well as I do that you probably goaded him into it.” Mycroft said quietly as he and Sherlock walked down the school steps. “What, did you insult his mother?”

“It’s not _my_ fault his father’s run off with his secretary,” came a snarled reply. “All because his mother’s a terrible cook.”

“Steven is a bully. He also excels at winding you up. You need to learn to control your temper, brother mine,” he said, reaching over to gently ruffle his brother’s hair. “What did he do this time?”

“He stole my lunch money. Again,” Sherlock looked at the ground, kicking at rocks as he walked. 

“This is the third call this school year. Eventually, they are going to figure out I’m not passing this information on to Mummy and start calling her directly.”

“I know. I promise I’ll try harder.”

“See that you do. Now,” Mycroft looks around furtively. “Hop up. I’ll carry you to my rooms, so we can get you properly cleaned up.”

Sherlock grinned and clambered onto his brother’s back. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

“Now, we will need to work out a convincing story to explain the black eye to Father when we get home…”


	3. His Own Worst Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third frame - Sherlock is 18 years old and Mycroft is 25 years old.

The black sedan looked decidedly out of place amongst the boarded-up windows and crumbling facades of the surrounding buildings. Mycroft Holmes was no better, his pristine 3-piece suit standing out amongst even the uniformed officers milling about. A silver-haired man in a dark coat approached him. “Mr. Holmes?” he queried.

“Yes. You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade, then,” Mycroft reached out to shake Lestrade’s hand. 

“Yes, sir. Come with me, please,” Lestrade lifted a yellow strip of crime scene tape, guiding Mycroft into a dingy warehouse. In a far corner lay what appeared to be a bundle of soiled clothing, but on closer examination…

Mycroft fell to his knees, heedless of the unidentifiable substances on the cement floor. He reached out and moved the old blanket to reveal pale skin. “Sherlock? Brother, can you hear me?” He touched the bruise-covered shoulder gently.

“Yours was the only phone number he had on him, except for his dealer, who’s sitting in the car outside,” Lestrade mumbled, hesitant to interrupt the scene in from of him. 

Piercing blue eyes gazed up at grey ones. “You came,” came a quiet voice from the pile of cloth. 

“Of course,” Mycroft’s normally hard features softened. 

He looked up at Lestrade, who stood a few yards away. “Are there charges to be filed? I would like to take him to hospital,” he asked, a note of a plea in his voice.

“Yeah, sure. Just get the kid clean, yeah? I don’t think I can overlook something like this again,” Lestrade grumbled.

“Of course. I have a proposition for you, Detective Inspector. My brother has a very sharp mind. He enjoys solving puzzles… one of the ways he alleviates his boredom. I suspect in exchange for helping with some of your more difficult homicide cases, he might be willing to forgo the _other_ way he alleviates his boredom,” he motioned toward his drug-addled brother.

“Get him clean, then send him to my office. I’ll see what we can do,” Lestrade nodded. The auburn-haired man has some influence, obviously. God knows his division could use some help, too.

With a groan, Sherlock sat up, the tattered blankets falling away. Mycroft helped him to his unsteady feet, slipping on his grimy hoodie. With a guiding arm around his waist, Mycroft began to lead his brother toward the door, when Sherlock stumbled. “I am sorry, brother, but my feet seem to have forgotten their purpose,” he laughed grimly. 

With a shrug, Mycroft nodded. “Well, there is another option, you know.” Mycroft turned slightly and patted his shoulders. “Hop up. I shall carry you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That is patently ridiculous, Mycroft.”

“Well, throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you like a sack of potatoes would be worse. You may choose.”

“Fine,” Sherlock clambered onto his brother’s back, as he had done so many times before. 

“I’ll always be there for you, Sherlock.”


End file.
